Convalescent
by flowerpicture
Summary: Brendan's got himself an injury, and Ste's there to take care of him.


**AN: Written in 2nd person again because reasons. (IDK I'm on a 2nd person kick lately.) Set in some indeterminate time. No idea when really. You decide. Doug isn't there because he's not there. Ste has the deli. Brendan has the club. Yeah. I think I had in mind some moment in time after Ste was meant to go to America but idk.**

**I'm splitting this into three parts as it got a bit out of control when it was meant to just be a quick one shot. Parts 2 & 3 coming in the week.**

**::: :::**

You've only got five minutes, a quick dash across the road while the deli's quiet enough for you to close up briefly. The wind's bitter today, whipping across your face, harsher as you jog up the steps to the club, up onto the balcony, Brendan's platform upon which to observe his kingdom. Or observe you, at least. You've seen him, stood up here, gazing down as you wash the deli's windows or take in a delivery or lock up the shop. His stare is like a hot brand on your skin and it makes you prickle when you feel it, makes your blood thrum through your veins. Sometimes you look back up at him, pause what you're doing and search out his eyes; your gazes lock for an instant, two, wordless across that expanse of space between you and yet you feel close to him in those moments. Connected.

You push through the club's door with your breath short, rub warmth back into your arms. Winter's on the way.

Brendan's sat at the bar, thank god. You don't have the time to look for him. But you do have a moment to look _at _him, just a second that feels too short and he's so gorgeous, this man, so perfectly put together. It never fails to shock you.

"Hiya."

He glances up from whatever he's doing with the clipboard in front of him, looks across at you with the kind of expression you know is meant to be indifferent. It doesn't work. You see it, the spark in his eyes at the sight of you. You know it's there.

"Steven."

"Just came to get the money for that food I supplied here last week."

You'd barely seen him. He'd sent one of his minions over to place the order for the event the club was hosting, and when you took the food over the next day, you only just glimpsed him in his office, pacing the room while speaking on the phone. You'd exchanged smiles, but that had been in it.

"Yeah," he says, getting up off his stool. There's a softness to his voice that you like. It feels personal. Once upon a time he would've made you work for the money he owes you, twisted it into some kind of game that left you feeling inadequate and ridiculed. But those days are gone, leaving behind a blurred kind of intimacy when he speaks to you now. It feels like a smudged line waiting to be crossed. "Yeah, okay. Let me just—"

The door opens, admitting a young blond lad whose tanned skin and cut cheekbones disarm you for a moment. You've not seen him before—you would've remembered this lad.

"Brendan." The kid's not even bothered throwing you a glance, eyes fixed firmly on Brendan. You know what that's like, and your spine stiffens on instinct. That was you once, the new recruit. In awe. "There's a delivery."

"You can't handle it?" There's a hint of exasperation in Brendan's tone now.

"Needs your signature, don't he."

Brendan sighs, drops his pen on the bar. "Be with you in a minute," he says to you, resting a hand on your shoulder as he passes, fingers pressing in a warm touch. "Have a drink, yeah?" The kid's watching.

"No ta," you tell him. "Ain't got time for all that."

You stand around awkwardly once Brendan's vanished, until your attention's caught by the kid. He's behind the bar now, unloading a crate of vodka, his blond hair falling artfully into his eyes.

You stare at him. He fits in perfectly around here—a village full of beautiful people who look as though they've stepped out of a glossy magazine. He's one of them, blinding you if you look too closely.

"Who are you then?" You don't mean to sound accusatory, confrontational. You hope the kid doesn't read anything into your tone.

"Colin," he says, glancing up briefly through thick, fanned eyelashes.

"Colin. You been working here long?"

"Few weeks."

"Right," you say, nodding. "You like it?"

"It's fine."

You smile at him, but he's not looking to see it. "Not very chatty, are ya?"

"Yeah, well," he says, scowling at his vodka bottles. "Some of us have got work, so…"

"All right." You're sharp with it, taking mild offence to the kid's standoffishness. You were only trying to make an effort. But if he's not interested, then neither are you.

You head outside again, pulling your jacket tight around yourself. Could've done with a coat today, didn't realise how much the weather was going to drop when you left the house this morning. No one at home to remind you. No one to worry about your welfare.

"Right, Brendan," you call, jogging down the steps. "I need to get back to work so if I can have that money off ya—"

You're interrupted by a cry of pain, a sharp burst of agony splitting the chilled air.

"Brendan?"

When you reach the bottom of the steps, you find Brendan hunched over a stack of crates, a delivery guy stood by him with his arms crossed, looking at Brendan with a raised eyebrow.

"What's happened?" you ask, rushing to Brendan's side and resting a hand on his back. He's bent over, one hand holding his right shoulder, face creased in pain, teeth gritted.

If this guy's hurt Brendan, you swear to god—but he hasn't. Of course he hasn't. No one's that stupid.

The delivery guy sniffs. "I told him not to lift 'em all at once."

Brendan stands straight suddenly, dislodging your hand on his back. He's still holding his shoulder, the sweat of pain making his forehead glisten. "Who asked you?" he snaps at the man. "Get lost, yeah?"

"Have a nice day, _sir_," the man says after a snort of derision, then he heads across to his van parked in the yard.

You take one look at the tall stack of crates Brendan had obviously been attempting to carry, then at Brendan himself, gripping his shoulder, holding his right arm close to his body and looking for all the world like a man trying desperately not to cry. You would laugh, if concern wasn't flooding your system so rapidly. "Right," you say to him, adopting a no-nonsense tone. "We need to get you to the hospital."

"I'm fine, Steven." His jaw's clenched, making his words muffled. "Just—go take your money out the till."

"No, right—" You touch his right arm and he hisses, rears back, moisture swimming across his glazed eyes. "See! Don't be stupid. Come on." With your gentle push on his back, he concedes, albeit grudgingly. Stomping over to his car like a sulking child and you following behind him, tutting. "When are you gonna figure out you're not young anymore, eh?" You hold out your hand for his keys. The deli's behind you, waiting for you to reopen for the afternoon trade. You ignore it.

"Thanks," he mutters in mock offence, then uses his left hand to dig his keys out of his right trouser pocket. It makes him twist comically in the effort and you bite back a smile.

You roll your eyes at him. "You know what I mean," you say, and ignore his grumbling as you open the passenger door for him, wait for him to get inside, then lean over his body to secure his seatbelt.

You pretend his heat and proximity doesn't create an entire colony of butterflies in your tummy.

::: :::

He meets you back in the waiting room a good two hours later, his right arm hooked up in a sling. No doubt they've pulled and prodded him to within an inch of his patience and he looks exhausted with it. You can imagine him back there, biting terror into the doctors and nurses as his tolerance waned.

"Well?"

He shrugs his good shoulder, face the very picture of frustrated misery with his eyes downcast, his hair gone a bit flat. "Torn my shoulder pretty good."

You bite your lip to rein in your reaction. Half of you wants to laugh at the sight of him so droopy and downtrodden, like a shaggy dog pulled in out of a storm; the other half of you wants to wrap him up and keep him close and protect him from any further harm. You decide to steer clear of both instincts. "Right, well, congratulations. That'll take a few weeks to heal, that." You look him over, not really sure what you're expecting to see. "They give you painkillers?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Home now, right. You need to rest that arm."

He tutts and sighs and rolls his eyes skyward. "I'm not a child, Steven." But there's no real fight in him. Deep down, you reckon he's secretly glad you're here with him.

"Shut up and get a move on," you tell him, ushering him out of the room. "I've got me own business to run, you know. Ain't all about you, Brendan.

"I never asked you to come."

"How else were you gonna get here?"

"Taxi."

You pause to let a man roll past in his wheelchair, crowd in close to Brendan against the wall. Narrow corridors, this place.

"But then you wouldn't get to scowl at me, would you?" You're looking up at him in your closeness, see the scruff of his five o'clock shadow making an early appearance. When you give his ribs a gentle poke, he scowls down at you, making your point. "And we know how much you like that. Right," you add, when there's room to move again, interrupting anything Brendan wanted to retort. "Home. Now. Let's go."

"When did you get so bossy?"

::: :::

"What're you doing? I'm going to work, Steven."

You're making him a nest on his sofa, that's what. Cushions and blanket and the remote within reach.

"Don't be so stupid."

You pat the sofa invitingly, the space beside the cushions you've stacked up for him to rest his shoulder on.

He stares at it, then at you. "You think the club runs itself? It's Friday night."

You huff out a sigh of complete exasperation. "Right," you say, with as much authority as you can muster. Brendan won't agree to anything unless he's forced into it. Stubborn fuck. "Give me an hour at the deli, then I'll lock up and go take care of the club for you, all right?"

"You. Run my club." For his tone, you might as well have suggested nipping to the moon for dinner.

You're briefly offended.

"It's not rocket science, Bren. I've done it before. I know what I'm doing. Give us your keys," you say, making an impatient gesture, and it's as though he's shocked into it because he does as he's told. You hide your surprise as you pocket the club's keys and cross your arms over your chest. "Anything I should know?"

He blinks at you. "Uh…there's a promo on shots. Colin can tell you."

It gives you pause, hearing the kid's name from Brendan's lips, and you shift your weight awkwardly, attempt to mutter indifference.

"Nice looking lad, that Colin."

"I hadn't noticed," he says levelly, looking you in the eye.

You huff a quiet laugh. "Don't lie."

"He's not my type."

"Young. Blond. Skinny." You're ticking off the attributes on your fingers, eyebrow raised in a challenge. "Am I missing anything?"

It takes him a few moments to answer, searching your eyes, before his lips quirk as if stifling a smile. "If I didn't know better, Steven, I'd say you were jealous."

Your immediate instinct is to deny, deny, deny.

"Why," you say, and it's not the denial you were planning; it's exposing a vulnerability, "is there anything going on between you?"

"Would it matter to you if there was?"

"No."

"Good."

"Right." There's a charge of tension in the air and you didn't mean for the conversation to go here, to highlight the elephant that's always been in the room between you ever since your marriage to Doug ended. Ever since you became free and available again.

You deflate, look down at the floor and rub your brow. Brendan's gaze is burning on you.

"I'll just make you summat to eat quickly and give your Cheryl a ring," you mutter, heading into the kitchen, "tell her to come home."

"She's out with Nate today."

"She won't mind, Bren. Know when to accept help, yeah? That's your right arm you've damaged. You're practically useless."

"Thanks."

You flash a grin as you pull bread from the cupboard. "No problem."

"Steven." His tone commands your attention and you pause what you're doing, look across at him. He hasn't moved—still stood in front of the sofa, watching you, a seriousness in his eyes now. "Colin," he says. "There's nothing. He's just a barman."

You swallow. "I was just a barman."

"That's different." It's almost a whisper. "You were different."

You're staring at each other. It's not a look passed between friends; it's not anything close to it. It's saying things you've not built the courage to question.

You clear your throat and break the connection.

"I'll just make that sandwich."

::: :::

You make it to the club a little while before the place is due to open for business and you expect to find staff behind the bar and music playing over the speakers and the atmosphere waiting for drinkers. But everything's only half ready for opening time and you come to a stop in the middle of the floor upstairs, looking around with a frown.

"You still not finished setting up?" You're saying it to no one in particular, and all four members of staff up on this floor look up from whatever they're doing and pay attention. "Come on," you add, clapping your hands together, "we're opening soon."

"Uh…" comes a lone voice as you make your way towards the office, keys rattling in your pocket as you dig for them to open the office door.

It's the Colin kid who spoke and he catches up to you now, stops in front of the office door, effectively blocking your way. You raise an eyebrow at him before realisation dawns on you—just because Brendan's trusted you with the running of this place, it doesn't mean anyone here has any idea who you are and why you're here giving orders.

"Oh. Yeah." You give Colin a smile, something meant to put him at ease, but he does nothing but frown at you. "Brendan's not coming in tonight, so…"

Colin shifts his feet, crosses his arms over his chest. Squaring up, apparently. "So that puts me in charge then."

"How'd you work that one out?"

"He relies on me a lot," Colin says, shrugging one shoulder in an arrogant sort of way, "gives me a lot of responsibility. I just thought—"

"You've been here a few weeks, mate," you tell him, fighting the instinct to smirk. His scowl deepens when you give him a bracing clap on the shoulder. "Don't get ahead of yourself, yeah? I'm covering for him tonight."

He shakes off your hand, his eyes narrowing. "What do you know about running a club?"

It puts your back up a bit, his tone. Makes you feel defensive and mildly irritated. There's nothing warm about the way you respond. "I was running this place before you'd even left school."

For a moment you think he's going to lash out—you can see the ire building in his eyes, the clench of his jaw. But he chooses a different tact, one that disarms you.

"You've known Brendan a long time then?"

"Few years, yeah," you say cautiously. "Why?"

"He obviously trusts you."

"Obviously," you say, and you get it. He's sussing you out—not you particularly, but you and Brendan. The pair of you; your dynamic. The way you'd seen Colin look at Brendan earlier that day, it had given you pause. Made you a little suspicious. But you didn't really give it much weight. Never really thought there was anything to be concerned about there. But maybe there is. Maybe this kid _does_ see you as competition for a prize he's seeking.

Maybe this kid is suddenly competition for you.

"So there's some history there then?" Colin says and you're right, you can sense it now. You're an obstacle for this kid.

You straighten your shoulders, a bit of squaring up of your own.

"He used to be my boss," you say, your tone low and cold. "Now he's my friend. That's all you need to know, all right?" You're staring him down and he's taking it, doesn't even blink. But you've had enough of this. He's just some kid, and whatever he thinks he wants or whatever he reckons he's going to get—none of it matters. "Now get to work."

He gives it another few moments, staring you dead in the eye, his expression clouding over. When he speaks, it sounds like ice.

"Yes, _boss_."

You're pretty sure you're well on your way to making an enemy.

::: :::

It's busy, but no so busy that you don't notice Brendan edging his way across the bar towards you. He's wearing a scowl, his bad arm held close to his body in a protective stance, and he rolls his eyes skyward when he's forced to stop for a moment as some drunk student swerves into his path.

"What're you doing here?" you ask him when he finally reaches you, watching him look around the place with a critical eye. "Oi, you've not come to check up on me, have you?"

He stops examining the room to look at you, leans his good arm against the bar that's separating him from where you're twisting on a new optic to a bottle of vodka. "Cheryl and Nate. Doing my head in." There's a weariness in his tone that makes you want to laugh at his misfortune.

"So what? You thought you'd come and hide out over here?"

"Something like that," he says, awkwardly shrugging and then wincing when it impacts on his injury. You reach out to him, ready to put a warm hand against his bad shoulder in some kind of attempt at comfort, but you're interrupted by a body knocking into your side.

"Brendan." Colin. Of course. "Are you okay?"

You can't fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"Fine," Brendan says, short and clipped.

Colin nods at Brendan's shoulder, a crease between his perfectly angled eyebrows. "That looks painful."

Brendan, after staring at him as if not quite sure what he's looking at, drawls, "Well it's no picnic, Colin, I won't lie to you."

You huff out a sigh, and jab an elbow none too gently into Colin's side. "Those customers won't be serving themselves," you say sharply, "will they?"

Colin gives you a look so evil and cold, you almost physically feel it. But you don't back down, and when Colin finally storms off to do his job at the other end of the bar, you look back at Brendan to find him smirking at you.

"What?"

"Nothing," Brendan mutters, dipping his head in something like coyness.

"Right," you tell him, blinking a little at the weird warmth pooling in your tummy, "get in the office. Last thing you need is some drunk idiot knocking into that shoulder of yours."

It takes a bit more convincing, but eventually Brendan agrees it's for the best, especially when some drunk idiot actually does come close enough to do damage if you hadn't been there to step in his way.

A few minutes later you find Colin pouring a double whiskey. There are no customers in front of him.

"Who's that for?"

"Brendan."

The kid's so desperate, and you wish you could say you don't understand it, what with him being so beautiful and likely able to get anyone he wants. But this is Brendan, the man Colin's so focused on. Brendan Brady. Of course you understand it, more than you like to admit.

You tutt at him. "Are you stupid? He's on painkillers." You snatch the whiskey bottle away from him, pay no attention to the way his hand balls into a tight fist at your action. "Just…serve that customer, yeah?"

You're kept busy over the following hour. An unscheduled hen party bursts through the door in a flurry of fishnets and pink tutus, all shrieks and cackles, making you cringe as you pour umpteen glasses of wine and mix the most ridiculous cocktails they can think of. When you finally get five minutes, you spend it checking Brendan's okay.

"How're you getting on?" you ask him when you enter the office, finding him leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

"Bored." He sighs, long and deep. "So bored."

You take pity on him, close the door softly behind yourself and perch on the edge of the desk beside him. "Why don't you go home? Put your feet up."

He gives a mirthless laugh. "Play gooseberry in the Cheryl and Nate love nest?"

"There's nothing you can do here. You can't even hold a pen without your eyes watering." When he sits up straight to shoot you a sharp look, you smile. "I had a sneaky look in earlier."

He deflates, and his face twists into a grimace. "I can't sit there and listen to them sucking each other's faces off."

The idea sparks to life in your brain, and you voice it before you have chance to doubt yourself.

"Go back to mine then," you say brusquely, digging your keys out of your pocket. You find the spare key, the one that used to belong to Doug, and work it off the ring.

Brendan blinks at you. "What?"

"Yeah. Put the telly on, watch a movie or summat." You hold the key out for him and he stares at it, then at you, something soft brightening his eyes. "Gotta be better than sitting here staring at the ceiling, right?"

"Yeah. I guess." He clears his throat before reaching for the key, taking it off you carefully, as if afraid you'll snatch it back. "Are you—you don't mind?"

You don't mind, but you're not entirely sure you're doing the smart thing. But you're not going to question the decision, or the pulse of excitement in your chest.

"You can put the heating on for me and warm it up for when I get home."

He smiles at that, all gentle and intimate, and you wonder if that's shyness you can see there. But it can't be. Brendan's got too much of an ego for shyness.

"There's a couple of ready meals in the freezer," you add, "if you think you can manage getting one in the oven."

"You. Ready meals."

"Yeah, well." You break eye contact, feel awkward all of a sudden. "Living on me own, not much point in cooking." You don't want him to read anything into it; don't want him to think you're _lonely_, and this is just an attempt at gaining some company, any company. The fact that it's Brendan sharing your space is very significant to you. Maybe he knows that. Maybe you'll have to find some way of making sure he does.

"Sure you don't mind?"

You smile. "Kick your shoes off, put your feet up, and relax. Please," you say, looking him straight in the eye. "For me."

He's watching your mouth as you speak, and when he responds, it's not what you expect to hear.

"What d'you need, Colin?"

You hadn't even heard the door open, but when you glance over your shoulder, you find Colin standing there, peering in at you, at Brendan staring at you like he can't look away.

"Uh," says Colin, then he clears his throat and pastes on a neutral expression. "We're out of pound coins in the till. I can do it myself if you give me the safe code."

"You don't need the safe code," you say to him, dismissive and unconcerned with it. The kid has no place being in here. "I'll bring out the change in a minute."

He's not looking at you, and he doesn't acknowledge what you say. He's got eyes only for Brendan.

"Can I get you anything, Brendan? A drink? Whiskey?"

You heave an almighty sight. "Didn't I already tell you he was on painkillers?"

He's looking at you now, that familiar ice in his eyes. Scowling like that, he's not half as attractive. "I'm asking him, not you."

"Steven's right, Colin," Brendan says calmly, his tone measured. "I can't drink. Get back to work, yeah?"

As soon as the door's shut, you round on Brendan, irritation making your voice tight. "That kid's a right little—"

"Ignore him," Brendan says, standing up in front of you and ever so briefly brushing a knuckle across your jawline. "I do."

You swallow, your irritation draining away to be replaced with that pooling warmth again. Brendan doesn't move from in front of you, doesn't stop looking at you.

"Safe code?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and there's no hesitation from him, no doubt as to his trust in you. "Four-nine-seven-two."

"Right." You get up, bringing you shockingly close to Brendan for an instant before you round the desk and cross over to the safe. When you look over your shoulder, he's still watching you.

"Off you go," you tell him, with an attempt at authority, "go on. I'll see you back there in a bit."


End file.
